


Broken

by warriorpoet



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Death, Gen, Kidnapping, Season/Series 05, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorpoet/pseuds/warriorpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-"To'hajiilee" (s5e13) AU. When both Jesse and Walt are taken hostage by Jack's gang, they have to try to put their past aside in order to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

Time stops and speeds up and falls into oblivion all at once.

Jesse's got his nose pressed against leather upholstery, all new car smell and soft leather. Then he's kicking the door open without thought and the world shrinks to the size of a bullet, the universe to the sonic boom of gunfire that echoes between the buttes. He runs, he doesn't know where, and then he stumbles and he's on the ground and maybe he's been shot and he's going to feel it any second now or maybe he won't and he's already dead.

He crawls on his belly back to the car, wondering if maybe Mr. White has another gun stashed in there somewhere, wondering if it even matters, wondering if they saw him and if they won't notice it if he folds himself under the car and holds his breath 'cause that always worked when he was a kid and he swore there was a monster in the closet and his parents refused to come and check for him again so he hid under his bed until he fell asleep and was safe.

He gets on his knees and reaches back into the car, feeling around desperately on the floorboard of the passenger seat, the driver's seat, flipping open the glove compartment, reaching back as far as he can, and he's so stuck on this, that this is what he needs to do, he doesn't notice that the echo of gunfire is all that's left and then there's a hand on his shoulder and a blow to his ribs and one to his temple and then there's just nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Everything is dark and he can't move, so he guesses this must be what being dead is. 

Everything hurts. So if this is his eternity, it fuckin' sucks.

The ground beneath him jolts, it's moving, he's thrown up and down and maybe this is the earthquake that swallows him up and takes him to hell. But his head hits it, and he realises it's metal. There's wind blowing, and the sound of a motor, and something pressing over his eyes, and something around his wrists. His ankles too.

Jesse groans as he rolls onto his back. He kicks his legs up, trying to figure out if there's anything above him. There isn't, so he struggles to sit up with his hands bound behind him.

"Jesse," says a voice, and he'd know that voice even if he was dead.

"Mr. White?"

"Try not to move."

He rolls his eyes right back and there's just the faintest sliver of blue sky visible where the thing over his eyes has slipped a little. He breathes in, and out, and his whole side is burning.

"What happened?" Jesse asks.

He doesn't hear Mr. White again.

 

* * *

 

Maybe he passes out again or maybe they weren't that far from where they were going the first time he came around. But the next thing he's aware of is falling again, and being caught by his armpits. Someone or something hauling him up, there's the sound of something sharp and then he can move his feet again. 

Something small and hard jammed between his shoulder blades and he doesn't have to think about it too long to know it's a gun. He thinks he feels a pinpoint of heat right at his head, and he guesses there's another one aimed there. He could just be imagining it, but figures it doesn't matter either way.

"Walk." 

He doesn't know who that is, but it sounds like it came from whoever is holding the gun on his spine, so he walks. The ground is uneven, there are loose rocks under him. One foot slips, and he gasps and the gun jams into him even harder. He keeps going, unsteady but trying to fake it, like he's been pulled over for a DUI and is bullshitting the cop that he can walk the line, it's cool, man, I can totally drive home, just let me go and don't search my fuckin' car.

There's a metallic creak, a clang, and then he's being pushed onto his knees on hard ground. The gun stays there and there's that sharp sound again before he can move his wrists and then everything is bright, so bright, he can't see anything and the gun is gone and then the light is too.

 

* * *

 

He stays perfectly still until his eyes start to adjust. All he can hear is breathing. Short, panicked little gasps that take him a while to figure out are coming from him. 

And if he's breathing, then he ain't dead yet.

Outlines of things start swimming up from the darkness. A cot, a camping cot, like those ones they used to keep in the RV. Cinderblock walls, and a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. 

Jesse climbs to his feet and reaches up, grappling for the chain. He pulls.

The light clicks on and now he can see it. Some kind of bunker-shack-prison thing. There's a door at the back of the room and he lunges for it in desperation. It opens and his heart jumps, skips, and then plummets when he sees a small bathroom, a dirty toilet and sink and a showerhead dripping rusty water.

He wishes he'd just stayed in the dark.

 

* * *

 

He's starting to wonder if he only imagined hearing Mr. White's voice. 

What if Mr. White was dead, and that was his fucking ghost or some shit that he'd heard. 'Cause that'd be his luck. Mr. White finally fucking croaks, then haunts him for the rest of his life. No getting away from the evil old prick.

But he's perched on the edge of the cot, head resting on crossed arms resting on his knees, drifting in and out of consciousness, when there's that creak and clang and light from outside cutting across the room. It's softer now, tinged orange, and when Jesse jerks up with a start that makes his head throb and his chest ache, he can pick out that unmistakable silhouette. 

The door slams shut and something metal rattles on the other side. Mr. White crosses the room and pulls the chain on the bulb. 

Jesse's eyes close against their will.

"How are you doing?"

"What the fuck happened?"

"I could ask you the same question," Mr. White says evenly.

Jesse's ready for a fight and ignores the way his head swims when he springs to his feet. "Yeah, you could. Except I don't know shit about bitches with Rambo guns out the ass."

"You're working with the fucking DEA!"

"But you didn't know that, did you? You were going out there to meet me—to stop me. You knew those dudes were coming. You called them out there. To what? You were gonna kill me?"

"Well done, detective."

The sarcasm would've stung any other time, but Jesse's got bigger concerns. "So you couldn't work up the balls to come kill me yourself. Now who's the fuckin' coward, huh, Walt?"

Mr. White snarls his Heisenberg snarl and looks like he's now ready to do the job himself. Jesse braces himself to get hit, but Mr. White takes a few shallow breaths and says, "Jesse. We've each done things I'm sure we wish we hadn't. And we each have a far greater enemy now. We're not going to get out of here alive if we're at each other's throats. We need to work together."

"So, what, I fuck you, you fuck me, and now we're even? That's it, we're cool now?"

"My brother-in-law is dead. He's dead because you brought him out there. We are not 'cool', Jesse."

Jesse recoils. Of course Schrader is dead. Gomez too, probably, because if he wasn't there's no way Mr. White would've ever got out of those cuffs. "But that he just got in the way of the hit you put on me," he says, his voice cracking. "That's totally my fault?"

"How are you not following this? There never would have been a hit on you if you'd taken the money and left like I told you. If you weren't too stupid to realise all the things I've done for your benefit. To just accept what's done is done and move on with your life."

Jesse sinks back to the cot, the fight in him burning out. Suddenly he just doesn't care anymore. 

Mr. White backs off, sighing. "We could go round and round on this until the end of time. And we can't do that. Like I said, there are bigger problems that we're not going to solve if we're not working together."

Jesse buries his face in his hands. "So where the fuck are we?" he mumbles.

Mr. White tells him, about bargaining for their lives, agreeing to become the personal property of psycho Todd and his fucked up family and cook for them, to get Lydia off their backs, that's where they were and that's where they would always be because now tweakers the world over couldn't do without Heisenberg's blue.

Right back in it, in the worst possible way.

Once again, Jesse finds himself wishing he'd been left in the dark. 

He wonders why he even wanted to try to live through that shit back in the desert. He shoulda just run out into the open, got the keys to Mr. White's car off Gomez and got the fuck out of there. Or get shot 500 times in the process. Shit would've worked out better either way.

"Why do they need me? If they've got you, why do they need me?" Jesse says.

"I called off the hit on you. I told them that after what happened back there, if they harm you I'm not going to help them."

"So, what? That's it? I'm stuck here just so they can prove to you they haven't killed me? And we're just here until we die?"

"It will only be temporary. Just until Todd is cooking on his own well enough to meet Lydia's supply needs. Then... then they'll let us go."

Jesse laughs. Sharp, loud, almost hysterical. "Why are you even bothering to lie to me anymore?"

Mr. White sits beside him on the cot. He shakes his head. "I don't know, Jesse," he says, his voice small in a way that Jesse hasn't heard since he was in chemistry class and heckling Mr. White from the back of the room, grinding his enthusiasm under the toe of his sneaker like a cigarette butt. "Old habits, I guess."

The pounding in Jesse's head won't stop. He can still hear gunfire slamming into his ears. He tries to curl up at the end of the cot but fire cuts through him.

"I think my ribs are broken," he mutters, stretching out, not caring where Mr. White sleeps because he's suddenly fucking exhausted and maybe the screaming in his ears means that there's something broken in his brain, something that will start to bleed once he falls asleep and then he won't have to wake up.

Mr. White pulls the blanket from the cot and lays it out on the cement floor. Jesse closes his eyes and hears the rattle of the chain on the light bulb, and then darkness presses against his eyes.

He should probably feel bad about Mr. White sleeping on the floor like that, a 50-whatever-year-old dude with cancer who just saw one of his family members getting their head blown off.

But fuck him, Jesse thinks, and then he sleeps.

 

* * *

 

It might be morning, but it's impossible to tell. 

Jesse looks at the dirty mirror in the bathroom, and a blank face marred by bruises stares back at him. There's blood caked in his hair, a cut on his cheek. How the hell is he just learning this now? He touches the mirror, because it doesn't look like himself, maybe it's one of those pictures with the eyes cut out, like in haunted house movies, where someone stands behind it to watch you but makes you think it's a ghost.

He dunks his head in cold water and scrubs with his fingernails until the cut bleeds fresh again.

The rattle-clang of the door to the outside scrapes across Jesse's eardrums. He hesitates, then leaves the bathroom, because if someone's here to kill him, then fine. Have at it.

But it's Todd, and all he's got is a few plastic bags and a stupid look on his face and a cheerful, "Hey, Mr. White. Brought you some breakfast. And some soap and extra clothes and things. Might make you a bit more comfortable in here."

"Thank you, Todd." Mr. White takes the bags and Jesse desperately snatches the food from him. Two Styrofoam containers filled with greasy diner eggs and hash browns. He grabs one and drops the other on the cot for Mr. White, retreating to a corner of the room and warily glaring at Todd between bites.

Mr. White frowns at him like he's a moody child being rude to an important house guest before turning back to Todd. "Is there any chance we could get a first aid kit? Jesse is injured, and we can't do our best work as needed if there's any discomfort."

"Yeah. Sure," Todd says. "This place is my Uncle Jack's little getaway spot. But it's not set up real nice to live here permanently. We're gonna get you another cot, maybe a hotplate and some kitchen stuff so you can cook in here. Well, cook food at least."

Jesse's eyes roll so hard he feels dizzy again. "Maybe you can let me and Mr. White out in shackles to, like, go to Bed, Bath and Beyond or some shit. Buy some sheets and some curtains and set up a happy little home here in this prison cell."

"This is a better option than prison, Jesse," Todd says.

He hears Mr. White apologizing for him, and all he can think about is the crack of his fist on Todd's face and the way that batshit asshole fired at Drew Sharp without even thinking and how there was just nothing in his eyes as they drove back home from the train. 

The Styrofoam container drops to the ground, and he kicks it as he runs for the bathroom. He throws up, heaving into the rust-stained toilet, and as he's gasping for air and trying to stay upright, he sees a piece of scrambled egg on his shoe, smeared across a spot of blood.

He throws up again.

 

* * *

 

They do the cook in total silence. Well, Jesse does, at least. Todd is asking questions, and Mr. White is giving him instructions. But Jesse stays quiet, eyeing off the scary dude with the swastika tattoo who has a shotgun on his shoulder. At least Victor and Tyrus were never that obviously about to blow their goddamn heads off. 

This lab setup is bullshit. Practically worse even than what they started out with in the RV. Everything is dirty, residue clinging to the vats, a thin film of grime on every cook surface, and Jesse expects Mr. White to go nuts about contamination from the second they walk in. But he just nods to himself and gives Todd a patient smile and asks what he's been doing to keep everything clean, if they perhaps have a pressure washer at all?

But, nah, of course they don't, and so it becomes Jesse's job to scrub everything down by hand. It's something to focus on at least, something to try to lose himself in. On his knees in a hazmat suit and gloves to his elbows, scrubbing, scrubbing, until everything shines. Just like the good old days. 

The wooden top of the scrubbing brush keeps hitting the edge of the vat. Over and over again until it sounds enough like gunfire to make his hands shake.

 

* * *

 

Mr. White opens up the first aid kit and instructs Jesse to lift up his shirt. 

He drops onto the cot and glares at him. "Seriously?"

"If you do have a fractured rib, the work today didn't help. There's not a lot we can do except strap your chest."

"Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way." Jesse flops down and tries not to wince. "Yo, you don't have to pretend like you're helping me, you know. Just go ahead and make me expendable. You'll get what you want, right?"

"Jesse. I am trying to help you."

He looks at the nylon bag full of assorted medical shit, probably whatever Todd boosted from some pharmacy or the senior citizens he gunned down to unwind on the weekends. Mr. White hovers above him with the ace bandage in hand, and Jesse sees the glint of familiar orange plastic under some gauze.

"If you wanna help me, gimme these." He checks the labels on the pill bottles. "Alright, Vicodin. Could be better, but whatever."

He's twisting the cap off when Mr. White snatches the pills out of his hands. "No. I'm not going to let you do anything else to compromise your safety. _Our_ safety."

"I was pretty fuckin' safe until you ordered a _hit_ on me," he snaps. He shakes his head and flops down on the cot again. "Forget it. That shit wouldn't touch me anyway."

He lays on his good side, facing the wall, and pretends to sleep like he's pretending to be dead.

 

* * *

 

During the night, he takes the bandage and goes into the bathroom. The bruise on his side is an ugly purple, like something Mrs. Schrader would want to display in her living room. The thought makes him cringe. He tries to console himself by noting that nothing is poking out of his chest, so it can't be that bad, and he distracts himself by trying to turn his torso into a mummy. 

He's exhausted and it hurts like a bitch and it's just fucking impossible to do on his own. He mutters "Fuck, fuck, fuck," under his breath and hisses at the pain and slams his hand on the sink in frustration.

He's trying to catch his breath, slumped over on the tiles, when Mr. White opens the door slowly. He retrieves the bandage from where Jesse has thrown it, and gestures up with his jaw.

"Stand up," he says.

Jesse groans, but complies, raising his arms up as much as he can.

Mr. White's hands are gentle, much gentler than he ever would've expected.

 

* * *

 

He starts to wonder if he should start marking the days on the wall, like they do in prison movies. But seeing that there, little hatch marks when he goes to sleep and when he wakes up, would be too big a reminder that he's gonna run out of days to count soon enough. 

Every cook reminds him that they have no use for him. Mr. White is teaching Todd, and Todd's a fucking slow learner. Jesse's impatience shoots through him like electricity, his hands reaching out, his legs propelling him forward of their own accord to adjust equipment, to grab the right chemicals. Every time, that asshole with the shotgun clears his throat and Jesse snaps back to the present and backs off, goes back to monitoring inventory or packing one pound bags of the blue. Pointless shitty busy work, his only purpose for existing, a token concession to Mr. White that Jesse still hasn't figured out.

At night they're driven back to Jack's little vacation cell and make ramen with dirty water and Todd's stupid hotplate. Mr. White tries to make small talk for the first few nights, then gives up when Jesse won't play along. 

Now he's just stony silent, staring off at nothing with this thousand-yard stare, looking like Jesse's never seen him look. It's like there's nothing at all going on in his head, which is impossible, because Mr. White not thinking about something is like the Earth not rotating or whatever the fuck the Earth does.

"Yo," Jesse says around a mouthful of noodles. "How many people you think have died here?"

Mr. White is startled. "What?"

"'Uncle Jack's getaway place'? Please. This is a fuckin' murder shack if ever I saw one."

"Jesse... don't."

"Probably Todd's murder shack."

"Stop."

"Oh, what? Am I insulting your new best friend? What's the fucking deal with that, anyways? Why are you even helping these assholes?"

Mr. White sets his bowl down. "Because they've threatened my family. All of this, everything I've done, and if I don't keep cooking for them until I can get out of here and get money to my family, it's all for nothing."

"So... how are you gonna get out of here?"

"We have to make them think we're not a threat."

Jesse snorts. "Right. They, uh... they know your resumé, right?"

"It may take some time," Mr. White says tersely. "Which is why you need to co-operate when we're in the lab. That's the only way it's going to work."

"How can you even expect me to trust you again?"

"Because I'm all you've got. And you're all I've got. Which is why I have no choice but to trust you again, against all my better judgment. Do me the courtesy of returning the favour and we can both get out of this alive."

Mr. White picks up his food again and turns his attention away from Jesse and the conversation is over.

 

* * *

 

He figures maybe a week has gone by before they get a surprise visitor. 

Todd guides her around the lab and Lydia nods approvingly at the stacked bags of blue, ready for shipping. 

"This is good. This is good. We're able to work with this," she says over and over again and Todd nods and smiles at her like he did it all himself.

Jesse's slumped in a chair in the corner glaring at Shotgun Fuckhead until Shotgun Fuckhead notices him. Then he looks away and wonders if he should just go for it one day, just try to tackle the dude and if his head gets blown off then oh well.

When he looks away he sees Lydia offer her hand to Mr. White. 

"I'm glad you reconsidered," she says.

Mr. White smiles without showing his teeth, and Jesse sees the humiliation written plainly in his eyes. "As am I," he says, gripping Lydia's hand.

He can see the tears leaking from Mr. White's eyes, but looks away when Lydia stops in front of him. 

"You too. I'm glad we're able to have the full team working on this project again."

She smiles down at him and holds out her hand.

"Uh, yeah," Jesse shakes it, wondering if he should've written a note that said HELP US and passed it to her, wondering if this is the last time he'll ever touch a woman. "Thanks."

The click of her heels echoes through the lab as Todd guides her out. 

Jesse looks back to Mr. White. His face is blank, his eyes are wet.

 

* * *

 

"Yo," Jesse says that night when the light is out. "You awake?" 

"Yes."

"I'm in, alright? If you've got some plan to get us out of this... I'm helping. Alright?"

It's quiet for a long time, and when Mr. White answers, "Thank you, Jesse," his voice breaks and it kind of sounds like holding back tears again.

 

* * *

 

Lydia must have said something to them about treating their "employees" better, because suddenly Shotgun Fuckhead is gone and it's just the three of them. 

The cooks get worse and worse as Todd starts to gain confidence from the praise Mr. White showers him with. It's like with Mr. White being all placid and helpful that someone needs to fill in the ego vacuum, and Todd takes to it like child murder.

Maybe that's why he and Mr. White get along so well, Jesse thinks, suddenly pissed off out of nowhere. They've both got a hard on for hurting little kids.

 _Mr. White didn't kill Brock. Brock is alive. Brock is okay._ He says it to himself over and over again, and pulls the trigger on their brand new pressure washer.

 

* * *

 

He figures it's about two weeks in when Mr. White keeps waking him up in the night, coughing. Just a little at first. 

It's maybe a week after that before it sounds like he's choking. Constantly.

"So, you were telling the truth," Jesse says into the darkness.

"About what?" Mr. White answers, his voice raspy after finally catching his breath.

"The cancer is back."

"Yeah."

"How long do you have?"

Mr. White takes a deep breath, and Jesse steels himself for another choking fit. But he just coughs lightly and says, "With treatment, they gave me six months. But now..."

"How long?"

"I don't know. A month more. Maybe two."

A few weeks ago, hearing that would've made Jesse happy for the first time in forever.

But now, he can't feel anything.

 

* * *

 

"Jesse, you can sit out today," Todd tells him. 

Jesse's fingers curl into a fist against their will. He shrugs and hopes it comes off like a shrug and not like he's trying to hold his hand back from punching Todd, which he sort of is.

"Nah, man, it's cool. I want to help. I'm getting, like, my mobility back or whatever. I can clean faster than I have been."

"I don't think that's necessary."

"It's a shitty job, yo," he says, a desperate edge creeping in to his voice that he tries to swallow down. "I'm taking it off your hands."

"It's a free day off. I'm doing you a favor," Todd says with a smile and those dead eyes.

Jesse looks over at Mr. White. He's got his hand over his mouth, his chest shaking, trying to hold in a cough. He nods, silently pleads with him, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sure. I'll just... uh..."

"Double count the inventory. Your numbers from yesterday looked like they were maybe a little out?" Todd starts pulling on his hazmat suit. He smiles at Jesse, part pride, part polite, all dead-eyed fucking psycho.

Jesse goes outside. He falls to his knees and slams his fist into the dirt until his knuckles bleed.

 

* * *

 

The cuts on Jesse's knuckles burn as Mr. White cleans them. 

"That was stupid," he sighs.

"Sorry if I don't like being so fucking useless – ow!" Jesse jerks his hand away. "Alright, enough. They're gonna kill me, what's the fucking point. Who gives a shit if I get an infection and my hand falls off?"

"They're not going to kill you as long as I have a say in it," Mr. White says. His voice is low and calm like Jesse doesn't remember ever hearing it. He imagines it's the way Mr. White would talk to his baby.

"How long's that gonna be?"

"It's just like Gus all over again. They need me. If I don't have you, they don't have me. We just bide our time until we have a plan to get out of this."

"How?"

"I need to try to negotiate for your release."

"Release to what? To some hole in the desert? They're not just gonna let me go, Mr. White. I saw them kill two DEA agents. They know I was working with the DEA before. No. No. They're gonna go, 'Sure, we'll take him home,' and then blow my fucking brains out."

"It's the only option." Mr. White says. He moves off Jesse's cot and pulls the light off. There's shuffling in the darkness, a cough, and then quiet.

Jesse pleads again. "No. Come on. There's gotta... there's gotta be something else."

"Jesse. I need you to get the money to my family. It's buried where – where you found me. That first cook site. Seven barrels. Remember how to get there?"

"Yeah."

"Take some for yourself. Pay Saul's guy whatever he asks to give you a second chance. Give his number to my wife. Get them out of here."

"How do you even know your family are still around? They probably think you're dead by now. With your brother-in-law missing too, they probably figure you had something to do with it and skipped town."

There's a long, heavy silence. Jesse turns his head on his cot, squinting through the darkness, trying to make out Mr. White's face.

"I can't make assumptions like that," he says quietly.

Jesse sighs. "Fine. Okay. If I can get out of here, I can do that."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

He hears the now familiar shifting of Mr. White's body and feels something, something grabbing at him. Mr. White's hand, seeking him out. Jesse reaches for him, thinking he wants to shake on it, but Mr. White laces their fingers together.

"I need this, Jesse."

"Yeah," he answers uncertainly. "I know."

Whether Mr. White means that he needs to believe in Jesse, that there's hope he can get his family out of town, there's hope all this shit won't amount to nothing, or if Mr. White just means he needs to hold Jesse's hand across their cots and maybe let them both feel like they're not dying alone, just for a second, Jesse isn't really sure.

 

* * *

 

There's one night after a cook where Mr. White doesn't get in the truck with him. 

Todd tries to make small talk, like they're buddies carpooling home from the office, and how 'bout those 'Topes, huh? Jesse twists his head around, looking back through the dusty rear window, Mr. White standing outside the lab, getting smaller and smaller and then he's gone.

"Where are we going?" Jesse growls, interrupting Todd saying some shit about how cool it is that a bunch of chemicals can be put together in just the right way and then there's something new there that wasn't there before.

"I'm taking you home," Todd says.

Just that word, home, makes Jesse feel sick. It's the wrong word for the place where he and Mr. White go every night. It's a word that sounds ugly in Todd's mouth.

"Where's Mr. White?"

"Back at the lab. What do you mean, Jesse, you just saw him there – " 

"Why is he there?" Jesse hates the fear in his voice but he knows even if it didn't shake like that, Todd could probably smell it on him. He just seems like the type who can smell fear, who uses it to find his way when he's lost.

"I'm not sure if it's right to discuss business with you. I mean, if Mr. White hasn't told you, maybe you're not supposed to know." Todd glances over at him, something like a lopsided mask of apology on his face. "I know you and Mr. White were both in charge back when we were tenting houses, but, you know... things have changed."

He stares out the window as the barren desert whips by. He could grab the wheel and pull, run them off the road, but there's nothing to hit, and if he tries to run, Todd won't hesitate to shoot him in the back. There's no point.

"Look, man, if you're gonna kill me just get it over with," he finally says.

Todd chuckles. He fucking chuckles, like Jesse's told a bad joke and he's being polite. "I'm just driving you home, Jesse. Why would I want to kill you?"

There are like a million reasons, but Jesse's not going to start arguing now.

 

* * *

 

He hasn't really cried much since they've been here. 

He sort of wants to, like maybe that will make him feel better, loosen the pressure that sits in his chest, because release, any kind of release, whatever it is, is pretty much the best feeling you can get without being high.

It's too fucking quiet.

It's always quiet out here, but with Mr. White there's at least something else, some other presence. Breathing and moving and chewing and swallowing, hands rubbing on clothes, feet crossing the floor, talking softly in the darkness, coughing in the bathroom with the water running.

It's so quiet that Jesse can hear his ears ringing, that softly persistent tinnitus from playing his stereo too loud and never once wearing ear plugs when he drummed and hearing too many firearms discharged at close range.

It sounds like someone inside his brain is screaming.

He covers his eyes with his hands and presses until he sees red and the scream starts to come from his mouth.

 

* * *

 

He sneaks some Vicodin from where Mr. White has hidden it underneath a sack of rice and finally manages to sleep, his limbs warm and weightless. 

He shakes and he hears his name and swims out from under it, opening blurry eyes to bright light and a face that he's glad to see, somehow.

"Thought you were dead," he rasps, his throat raw.

Mr. White lets go of his arm. "They wouldn't agree to release you."

"No shit."

"They say they're honouring their agreement with me. To make up for what happened to Hank." 

"So," Jesse shrugs. "Guess that's that."

It's like Mr. White's been hit, the way he crumples, sitting back in the floor with slumped shoulders and slack jaw. 

"That's that," he echoes.

"I mean... c'mon, man. You had to know this was gonna happen eventually, right?" Jesse feels like he's watching himself say this, and notes that he seems to be taking this news surprisingly well, considering.

Mr. White, however, is not.

"Everything I've done. Everything I've lost... this can't be it. It can't be for nothing."

" _We_ ," Jesse says. "What we've done."

He's either not heard or ignored, and it doesn't even bug him that much anymore. He lays back, sighs, stares up at the ceiling. It all meant nothing.

"If we got nothing, then we got nothing to lose," Jesse says, almost to himself.

It's not about helping Mr. White's family. It's not even about maybe getting a second chance at a second chance. It's just wanting to get something right, for once, to maybe make up for all the shit they've got so wrong.

They do have a bigger enemy. They do have someone worse than themselves to work against.

"How much do you think they trust you?" Jesse sits up, reaches out to shake Mr. White's shoulder. "Hey. Mr. White."

Mr. White coughs, and it's like he's just suddenly started breathing again. "What? What?" he gasps.

"How much do these assholes trust you?"

"I don't – I don't know. Not enough, clearly, or else I'd be free to come and go – "

"Do you think it'd be enough to give you a gun?"

There's that look. That look like Jesse is the biggest fucking moron on the planet. "Why on Earth would they do that?"

"Because there's a good reason."

Mr. White stares at him blankly.

Jesse smiles, and his face hurts like he's forgotten how to do it.

 

* * *

 

Proceed with caution, Mr. White keeps telling him. Building up more trust with them is absolutely necessary. 

Jesse is impatient. There's no time.

He knows how bad Mr. White is getting. He's seen this before, and seeing it again makes him curl up on his cot at night and bite his hand to stop himself from making a sound. He remembers the last time he saw it, how goddamn young he was then, and how he thought watching his aunt, the only family he ever had who ever really gave a shit about him, that watching her slowly dying was the worst thing that he would ever go through.

Reliving it like this, with this motherfucker who probably still wants him dead, this asshole that part of him still wouldn't mind beating the shit out of, locked up with no end in sight... he can't help but think this is payback. This is his hell. 

Maybe he did die that day out in the desert, the day of the shootout, with Schrader and Gomez. Maybe this is just what he deserves.

It's why he wants it to end, and end now. Because there's no fucking second chances left for anyone once Mr. White is gone.

And he's gonna be gone soon.

There are more and more nights where Todd drives Jesse back to the shack alone, Mr. White staying behind to, as he puts it, "sell the fiction". 

Jesse stays awake and waits for him.

Sometimes he turns the Vicodin bottle over and over in his hands. He wants to save them, because Mr. White will probably want to start taking them soon. He wants to save them, because should the need arise, it's a way out. 

He cries himself to sleep, wakes up with teeth marks on his hand. It doesn't make him feel better.

It's always a relief when Mr. White comes back, late in the night. Jesse hugs him in spite of himself, to reassure himself that it's real, that he's not dreaming, that he's not dying alone tonight.

Mr. White hugs him back.

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure you can do this?" Mr. White asks him for maybe the fourth time in the last week. "After everything... are you sure?" 

"I mean..." Jesse sighs and rubs his eyes. "At this point, what's one more?"

Mr. White gives him this look that's impossible to read. It's part shock and part like he's lost somewhere else and part like he's looking right through Jesse and part like Jesse isn't even Jesse at all.

"What?" he snaps, sick of feeling like some dot of a germ under a microscope.

"Nothing," Mr. White says. "You can do it."

Jesse stands up and pulls the lightbulb chain, just so he doesn't have to see how Mr. White's looking at him anymore.

 

* * *

 

He looks at the mirror every morning and every night and all the sleepless moments in between. He thinks about smashing it, a t-shirt wrapped around his fist, long silver shards falling in to the sink. 

Get the biggest one there is. Go for the neck. That weak spot, right under the jaw. Just get it and push.

 

* * *

 

Mr. White hasn't exactly told him that this is the day. 

Jesse just decides it is.

He doesn't know what's gonna work best, and maybe he should wait, but fuck it, fuck it, there's no goddamn time and he picks up the nearest full flask of carefully measured chemicals and Todd has his back turned and Jesse catches Mr. White's eye over his shoulder. Jesse nods, and Mr. White raises a hand like he wants to stop him, but fuck it, this is it, and he says, "Yo, Todd," and Todd turns and Jesse just flings that shit and Todd's screaming, howling, wailing, hands on his face, he's on the ground and Jesse sees the flash of metal at the small of Todd's back. 

He doesn't stop. He doesn't think. Todd's trying to reach back, fumbling for it, and Jesse sees the red skin of his face, blisters forming already, his eyes screwed shut and mouth a dark hole. Jesse kicks at Todd, at his arms, at his head, climbs on his legs and punches him in the back before he grabs the gun and pulls it up and cocks the hammer and fires. And fires.

'Cause fuck it, there's no time.

He looks up at Mr. White and finally he breathes and can feel his hands shaking.

"Go," Mr. White rasps.

Jesse looks down, the halo of blood spreading around Todd's head.

"Jesse, _go_!"

Either the gun drops or his feet start moving first, he can't tell, but he's already pushing the hangar door open when he worries about the gun going off accidentally, hitting Mr. White, and then he's out in the light and he can see the fence and he's running and kicking up dust and it feels like he leaps the last few feet, his fingers catching on chain link. Hauling himself up on shaking arms, feet kicking at air and catching footholds, and that's when he hears them coming up behind him and _fuck it fuck it fuck it not this again_ and a shotgun racks and hands grab his legs and then he's falling again. 

Fists strike him again. Steel-capped boots kick his ribs again. A gun barrel smashes his cheek again. He's tearing into a million pieces again.

"Stop!"

They don't.

"Jack, no! Stop! Do not kill him!"

Jesse screams and a shot fires and then he's alone, the bodies gone. He tries to crawl away, tries to curl up into himself, like an armadillo, like roadkill.

"You better gimme a fucking goddamned good reason, Walter."

It's so quiet that Jesse almost doesn't hear it before he passes out, wonders if he's imagining it before he doesn't wonder anything at all.

"I'll do it," Mr. White says, and then everything is dark.

 

* * *

 

Something wakes him up. 

An insistent, heavy sound, that rattles against his ear drums.

Jesse's first thought is that he's only been out for a split second, they're shooting again. His second thought is that he's back at their old cook site, hiding behind Mr. White's car, and everything that has felt like weeks has been a split-second panicked daydream.

His eyes crack open and he finds it's neither, that he's in the shack and Mr. White is on the cot across from him, coughing into one fist.

There's a gun beside him, the barrel aimed right at Jesse.

That wakes him up.

"You set me up," he croaks.

Mr. White struggles to inhale, shaking his head "no". 

"You knew they still guarded outside. You knew they'd jump me if I took Todd out."

"Jesse," he gasps. "Why – why would I do that? Why would I do that when I need you alive, and out of here? Why would you still be alive if I hadn't stopped them? I didn't do it on purpose. I tried to stop you. We weren't ready. I was going to try to get them away before you did it."

"Why do you have a gun?" Jesse whispers.

"Because in spite of that, your plan worked," Mr. White says. His thin smile is almost reassuring, and Jesse takes a deep, shuddering breath, as much as he can with re-cracked ribs, at least. "I told them I needed you to keep cooking with Todd gone, but that I'm afraid of you. I told them the only way nobody else will get hurt is if I catch you by surprise. So they gave me this." He picks up the gun, careful, showing it, not aiming it.

"Now what?"

"Now... now I try to leave one day. I fire into the air, then go out of the lab and say you were violent, I had to kill you. I catch them unaware, I take the first one out. Then you come, and get that one's gun, so we're both armed. We take them all out and we drive right out of there."

"When?"

"You need –" Mr. White coughs and shakes his head again, holding back the fit. "You need time to heal. This is a two man – "

He doubles over, pressing his face to the pillow, fighting for air.

Jesse sits up and his head spins, but he reaches out for Mr. White's shoulder. "Hey. C'mon, Mr. White, sit up. Sit up, it'll be easier to breathe."

Crawling over to the other cot feels like it's sucking the life out of him, but Jesse makes the trip, pulling Mr. White upright, lightly rubbing his back. 

The ridges of his spine stand out under his t-shirt, and Jesse realises how much weight he's lost, how much he's wasting away.

He stills, drained, breathing ragged, the occasional cough still racking him.

Jesse bites his lip and it makes his head pound. He doesn't wanna say it, he'll sound stupid saying it, but he's gotta.

"If this is a two man job... I don't know if we have that much time."

That rallies Mr. White, somehow, he pulls away from Jesse, fixing a stare on him. "No. _No_. I'm not dying without finishing this. I am _not_ , Jesse. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. I mean, yeah, you can say that all you want, but, Mr. White – "

" _No_. There is time to do this right."

"Okay," Jesse mutters under his breath.

Mr. White turns away and coughs and coughs and coughs.

They're fucking dead. Jesse knows it. He's pretty sure Mr. White does too.

 

* * *

 

It's a couple days before they're allowed back in the lab. Jesse gets out of the truck and starts to follow Mr. White into the hangar when Jack grabs him by his collar and drags him off to the side. 

"See that?"

He points. There's a grate in the ground, a big, fuck-off steel grate.

Jesse peers down between the bars and sees nothing but bare concrete. A big concrete box with bars, buried in the ground. A cell and a grave.

"Yeah," he says.

"That's where you're going next time you fuck up. That's where you're going if your buddy Walter ain't around to save you anymore."

Jesse is quiet, his stomach tying itself in knots.

Jack shakes him. "Got it?"

"Yeah," Jesse says, and Jack pushes him to the ground, kicking him in the general direction of the hangar. 

"Get back to work."

 

* * *

 

"They know. They have to know. They know you don't have much time left." 

Jesse paces the ten or so steps from front door to bathroom door between their cots. Mr. White has given up following him with his eyes, staring down at the floor instead.

"I never told them I have cancer," Mr. White says.

"Come on, yo, I mean, look at you. They've gotta know something ain't right."

"I've been held against my will, cooking meth for months and living on ramen noodles. I'm sure they're aware that these are not optimal conditions for healthy living, Jesse."

"Well, then, they're gonna kill you. He said if you weren't around to save me, that's where I was going. A fucking cell in the ground. Way worse than this."

"They won't kill me. They need me to cook and they won't want to work with you alone."

"Well, then, you're gonna die and they're gonna keep me until they don't," Jesse yells.

"Calm down."

"Don't you get it, Mr. White? We're fucked. This is it. There's no fucking chance of either of us getting out of here. Your family ain't getting shit. They're not even gonna get your body to bury you. _Nothing_."

"Shut _up_ , goddamn it," Mr. White snaps. He stands up, reaching for Jesse like he's about to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, but sits down again almost as quickly. Coughing, coughing, always coughing.

Jesse goes for the Vicodin, screwing it open, throwing the cap across the room.

"What are you doing?" he chokes.

"Take some of these. It'll make you feel better."

He holds out the pills. Mr. White looks at them, then to Jesse's face, and back again.

"I know, Jesse."

"Yeah. Science and shit. Opiates are good for you. C'mon, take 'em."

"I mean, I know this is it. I know... I know that I'm dying. I know we're done."

They stare at each other for a long moment that stretches on and on and time stops and falls into oblivion. Jesse sniffles, he turns his head and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

"Yeah," he says. "C'mon, take 'em, Mr. White."

"Don't... don't leave me, Jesse. Please. Do what you can to escape after, please try to get the money to my family, but... please don't leave me before I – before – "

"I won't, Mr. White. It's okay."

Jesse puts the pills in his hand, folds his hand into a fist. Mr. White coughs, and it's more like a half sob.

"Hold on to that. I'm just gonna get you some water, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

He sits on his cot and waits until Mr. White falls into an uneasy sleep before he goes for the Vicodin bottle again.

He takes three, and watches Mr. White breathe until he can't keep his eyes open anymore.

 

* * *

 

They cook together for a few more days before Mr. White can't get off the cot. 

Jesse is driven to the lab by himself. He cooks by himself.

Jack is there to personally keep a gun aimed at the back of his head.

"What's wrong with him?"

He pushes the last tray into the refrigerator.

"I don't know. He's just... it's, like, exhaustion or malnutrition or something." Jesse shrugs. "He's an old dude. He's been through a lot."

Jack eyes him off and Jesse knows he knows it's bullshit. He looks away, doesn't want to see the motherfucker fire on him.

The gun stays dormant, and Jack takes him on a detour before getting him in the truck. Dragged over to the grate again, shoved to the ground, his nose between the bars.

"Maybe we should just relocate you now, huh? Save commute time?"

"No!" Jesse cries. "Don't let him – he can't think I've left. Please. He's making you all the money in the fucking world, don't let him die alone. Just give him that. Please."

Jack pulls him up and snarls at him. "I don't know what kind of faggot-ass shit you two got going on, but it's fucking sick. You're gonna get that beaten out of you before long, you little pussy."

He bites his tongue for the ride to the shack. The truck jumps over potholes, and Jesse tastes blood.

 

* * *

 

He gives Mr. White some pills and sits with him. He makes some soup, and holds his hand. He remembers his aunt and cries. 

"I'm sorry, Jesse," Mr. White says. "I'm sorry to leave you here."

"Nah. Don't worry. I'll get out."

"Now you're lying."

Jesse sniffles and tries to smile.

"Don't worry about it," he says again.

Mr. White's eyes close. His brow creases. Like he's still fighting something, like he's in pain. Like he's still trying to figure it out, to find a way.

Jesse hates to admit it, but he kind of admires the old bastard for that. For not giving up. Even when it looked like he'd given up, he hadn't.

The silence breaks, and Mr. White says, "I have to tell you something."

"Yeah?"

A raspy breath. A cough. A sigh. "I was there... I was at your house the night Jane died."

Jesse frowns. "Yeah. You brought the money."

"No. After. I was there when she died." Mr. White's eyes open, and Jesse wishes they wouldn't, ever again. They're cold and sharp, like shards of mirror glass.

"No..." he murmurs.

"I watched Jane die. I was there. And I watched her die. I watched her overdose and choke to death. I could have saved her. But I didn't."

It's like blowing up a locked vault with thermite. There's sparks, and a bang, and flames, and everything spills out. 

"No!" Jesse jerks away, burned. Everything he'd tried to forget. Mike. Brock. Schrader beating his face into the ground. Drew Sharp falling. Gale's pleading tears and the kick of the gun.

Jane. Cold. Her eyes open and her lips blue. Pounding on her chest, and she was so cold, he thought his tears might freeze where they fell on her skin.

Mr. White could have saved her. And he didn't. All this time. He did nothing.

"Why? Why are you telling me this? Why? You want me to put you out of your misery right now? You want me to kill you?"

Mr. White's eyes are soft and wet again, his face sallow and gray. "Jesse. I'm sorry. I had to tell you."

"You want me to forgive you? You think I can, like, fucking save you from hell or something if you confess? Fuck you. _Fuck_ you."

The gun is on the shelf, behind a bag of rice. He pulls it, cocks the hammer. His hand is steady, the room spinning and blurred beyond his tears.

"Is this what you want?" he cries. "You lose, so you have to get back at me? You can't die with nothing?" 

Mr. White is silent, and he's not _allowed_ to be, he has to _answer_ for this shit.

"You let me trust you! You fucking let me trust you again!" Jesse screams.

"Jesse – " he breaks off into a cough. The sound grates at Jesse's ears, the suffering captures his attention.

"No. No. Dying quick is too good for you."

Jesse put the gun to his own temple and grins at the look of horror on Mr. White's face. 

"Jesse, please – "

"Why?" he whispers. "Why did you tell me?"

"I can't leave you here," Mr. White says.

"So this is what you want?"

"I didn't want any of this."

Jesse screams, his hand shakes, his finger edging on the trigger. 

He got him.

The son of a bitch got him.

"I'm sorry," Mr. White says again.

Jesse closes his eyes. He says sorry too, to everyone, to everything.

He holds his breath, presses the barrel against his temple. The last thing he thinks is to hope that the gunshot will echo around these concrete walls for days, for as long as it takes, for as long as it needs to be the last thing Walter White hears.

He pulls the trigger.

And then there's nothing.


End file.
